


Shirts and Skins

by Kindle86



Series: Skindominitable [1]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Friendship, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rape, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kindle86/pseuds/Kindle86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam goes to a lot of trouble to never been seen without his shirt off. The reason why is a secret he'd like to keep forever, but when Stephen Warren gets his hands on both him and Gene, that's not the only secret to come out.</p>
<p>Sam/Gene is Pre-Slash (but could be read as Friendship if so desired). </p>
<p>Story will be first in a series, but is self-contained and can definitely be read as a one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shirts and Skins

“Then I want off the case.”

Gene spit out his whiskey. Which did not improve his mood. At all. “You what?”

“I want off the case. You don’t need me on it anyway; you’ve got a full compliment—you said yourself it’s not a hard collar.”

“Since when does _Sam bloody Tyler_ not want on a case?” Sam just stared back at him. “Well, it ain’t gonna happen. You’re my bloody DI; you don’t ‘opt out’ of a sting operation that the whole team’s been working on for days!”

Sam’s face set determinately. “Interrogations, legwork, forensics—fine. But you don’t need me on the undercover op.”

“What?? Let me get this straight; you want to let Carling and Skelton run an undercover op without your supervision. Sam, what the bloody hell’s got into you?”

Sam didn’t meet Gene’s eyes; he stared resolutely off to the side, at what appeared to be a fascinating post off the Guv’s right shoulder.

Gene dropped his adversarial bombast for a moment and studied his DI. His stiff posture, his tightly wound composure, his defensive air—not entirely alien to Sam, true, but this situation didn’t sit right with Gene, and Sam’s  demeanor seemed particularly guarded—not defending a stance or principle, not on the offensive pushing for some picky-pain procedure…something was up. “Sam,” Gene dropped his voice to a gruff semi-whisper, “what’s going on? What are you not telling me?”

Sam shifted his gaze and stared firmly at Gene, squaring his shoulders. “I can be there as security at the rear entrance; you can radio if you need backup.”

Gene poured himself another glass. He knew his DI well enough by now to know that Sam wasn’t going to change his mind. But he was also accustomed to, despite fighting for every inch, having his direct orders obeyed. Knowing something was amiss, knowing Sam was keeping something from him—some piece of information that made this completely uncharacteristic behavior make at least a modicum of sense—he decided to push it. “Fine, then I’m _ordering_ you to take part. You’ll be undercover at the pool with the rest of us, tomorrow evening.”

Sam took a deep breath and looked down. “No.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “No, I won’t.”

Gene raised his eyebrows and reached for his glass. “You telling me you’re willing to disobey a direct order over this?”

Sam said nothing.

“Yer gonna risk your position on the force, just so’s you don’t gotta see Ray in a bathing suit?” Sam raised his gaze once more. “’Spose I could see that. I take it Chris’s more your type?” Still, Sam said nothing. “Oh, is that what you’re ‘fraid of?” Gene was enjoying this too much now, and he knew it. But it was pissing him off to no end that Sam was pulling this shite, the day before a big sting—and without any gddamn reason. Yeah, he knew Tyler could be off his rocker at times, but the one constant about him was his devotion to his job; what the hell’d got into him? “Yeah...” Gene nodded, exaggeratedly, and peaked through the blinds of his window, pretending to stare at Chris. “Skinny blokes get your goat? You ‘fraid you won’t be able to hide your stiffy once you see ‘im—‘fraid your bathing suit and the locker room will give too much away??”

Sam’s eyes narrowed; his fists clenched. Testament to his determination, he stated through gritted teeth, “You’ll need someone tooled up for backup. You can’t carry your IDs or guns with you, wearing just suits.”

Gene let the blinds snap shut. “I know, smart-ass. That’s why we got Mathis, Terry, and Spark. Ringin’ any bells, Sammy?”

“I’m not going undercover, Gene.” Gene eyed him. “Guv,” he corrected.

“And you’re not going to tell me why?”

Sam shook his head.

“And you’re prepared to walk out that door and not come back if I tell you it’s this job or your career?”

Sam’s eyes all of a sudden looked incredibly sad, but he didn’t move a muscle. Then, ever so imperceptibly, gave the slightest of nods.

Gene took stock of him once more. He knew he wasn’t going to win this one. And he knew he couldn’t lose Sam. And he knew Sam wouldn’t say two more words on the subject, the thin line of his tightly sealed lips intimating as much. And he knew fists wouldn’t solve anything. “Right, then. You’re off the inside team.” Sam’s body relaxed just the tiniest bit; he looked like a man whose executioner had granted a last minute reprieve, but still held the axe. Then, as Gene walked past him, apparently on the way to his filing cabinet, he socked him one in the stomach (for good measure). Sam grunted and doubled over, which was fine in his opinion, as, he hoped, his position kept the other man from seeing the tear that escaped his eye and landed with a splash at his feet.

Gene turned his head to see the back of the smaller man as the door swung shut behind him. Expecting to see him sitting triumphantly at his desk, having got his way yet again with his DCI, Sam instead marched straight past his desk and into the loo.

Gene turned back to walk to his desk, noticing a small but significant wetness on his otherwise very dry floor.

Sam sat in the toilette cubicle for nearly 7minutes before managing to regain enough of his composure to return to work.

~~~*~~~~*~~~~

Three months had passed since Sam’s unorthodox request, with no further reluctance to partake in operations on his part. The sting had gone more-or-less to plan, Ray having had only a small cock-up, but Sam, ready at the back door, had jumped the escaping crim and wrestled him to the pavement while Ray recovered from a slippery misstep.

It was now late August and Manchester was suffering a particularly uncomfortable spell. Earlier that week, sitting in the car waiting for a drugs deal to go down, the entire team crammed into the Cortina, watching heat waves dance on the pavement, Annie had suggested a weekend department fling. It would coincide with some of the pre-planned neighborhood block parties anyway, and it’d be a way to build good morale amongst the overworked detectives and the general public.

So, there they were, Saturday midday, grills going, a game of pick-up footie, and even a pool at their disposal. Most of the detectives were in their weekend garb, some inexcusably-short shorts and too-tight tee-shirts. Even Sam had “let loose” and opted for a maroon cotton tee and (longer) shorts (—though only slightly, as he still had to do his shopping in the 70s). Gene started in on his second beer as Sam strolled over, carrying a tray. “Here you are, Annie. Made some nibbles to share ‘round. You look like the one who knows what to do with ‘em.” Annie smiled taking the tray, thanked him and walked it over towards the other side of the street.

“Leave it to you, Tyler, to nancy up a manly grilling.” Sam just rolled his eyes and grabbed a beer himself.

“Oi, Guv!” Ray jogged over. “A bunch o’ the guys are squaring off in footie. You gonna join?”

“Wouldn’t be a real game without me, now would it?” Gene smiled.  “You commin’ Tyler, or you too much of a prissy boy to play any decent sport?” Sam gave him a stern look, but jogged after them just the same.

After teams had been picked—Gene insisted on facing off against Sam so he could “show him who’s boss”-- Chris piped up from Sam’s left, “Wait, how we gonna keep track ‘o teams?”

“Shirts and skins, ya div.” Ray shot back, standing at Gene’s right-hand.

“Right, so---“ Gene was prepared to fight for the privilege of being skins—with the blazing sun beating down, running around with any unnecessary clothing was rather un-enticing.

“We’ll be shirts.” Sam interrupted, more a command than an offer. Half his team groaned, complaining of the heat, but Sam showed no signs of budging.

Gene gave his DI a quizzical look, studied him a moment, then let it pass. He shrugged and began to pull at his collar, “Fine by me, ya loon.” If he wanted to make it that much harder on himself—well, who was he kidding? Of course he did. This was Sam Tyler. “Too worried the lasses won’t like what they see there, Tyler?” Carling shot out, as he too stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. Sam was too busy huddling his team and sketching out plays to take heed of the resulting chuckles.

After over an hour of play in the hot sun, lacking even a whisper of wind, the game was nearing an end, as the players were rapidly dropping like flies. It had paired down from the initial 20 or 30 players on the pitch to just a handful now. Chris had seated himself after the first 50 minutes, despite the jeering from Ray, who refused to quit before his Guv. Sam and Gene, equally stubborn as they were, continued to play full out, each determined to beat the other. The score currently stood at 4-4. Sam had the ball and was making a driving run for the goal when Gene tackled him out of nowhere.

“Arghhhrmph!” Sam hit the ground with a crack. “Ohhhh” he groaned.

“Shite, Tyler, you fucking lightweight,” Gene griped as he picked himself off his fallen DI.

Sam stayed down, staring up at a sky suddenly aburst with blurry spots. He tried to take a deep breath, but only seemed to inhale more pain. “Oooohhh” a low groan escaped his lips.

As it became evident that he was down for the count, the other blokes shuffled off—most having lost interest in the game and only having stayed this long to keep up appearances; now with the Guv distracted, there was no one to prove themselves to.

Annie, having seen the commotion, hustled over. “Sam? Guv, is he ok?”

“Oh, he’s just being a pansy. Come off it Tyler, get off yer arse.”

“Yes, Guv,” Sam disgruntledly wheezed. He tried to sit up, but Annie pushed him back down. It took little effort on her part, as he offered surprisingly little resistance.

“Hold on there, Mister. I saw that blow you took. You could have a cracked rib! Does it hurt?”

Sam blinked several times, weighing the possible consequences of honest and dishonest answers. Annie, meanwhile, took his pause as an admission of guilt. “Right, well let’s have a look, shall we?” She reached down, grabbing at the bottom of his shirt and moving to roll it up over his chest.

“Oi, no!” Sam suddenly shouted, adrenalized once again, swatting away her hands. Annie recoiled in shock. “Uh, sorry. Sorry, Annie. I just, I’m sure its fine. Just knocked the wind outta me, ‘sall. Thanks for that, Guv,” Sam turned and gazed up at Gene.

“Still, should let me take a look just in case, Sam. I did train in first aid, you know,” Annie offered.

“No, no. No, I’m fine really. Besides, not like a cracked rib leaves any external signs. Can’t tell a damn thing from lookin’ at it… -- but thanks, Annie,” he added in a half-hearted attempt to spare her feelings and make up for his earlier outburst.

Sam managed to shuffle himself to his feet; took a deep-ish breath. He’d had cracked ribs before, but he didn’t think this was one of them; bruised maybe, but he didn’t feel there’d been an actual break.

“Right,” Gene grunted. “Drink.” And shuffled off, leaving his DI to trail after him, Annie at his side.

 

The party had migrated to the poolside—only to be expected after such exertion on a hot summer day. Kids were splashing around in the kiddie pool, the mothers gazing watchfully over their chicks, sparing little heed to the menfolk. Sam, naturally, was busy making small talk with the mothers. Testosterone still in plentiful supply, the men decided to organize a water polo match.

“Oi, Dorothy. You playin, or what?” Gene shouted.

Sam turned slowly, taking a look at the sweaty mob of dirty men crowding into the changing hut. “Think I’ll pass.”

“Bullocks.” Gene made his way over to Sam and grabbed the crook of his arm. “We need you ‘ta make the teams even.” He snatched Sam’s duffle with his free hand as he dragged Sam behind him, not bothering to wait for an answer.

Once in the locker room, Gene slammed Sam’s bag down on a bench next to his own and began riffling through till he found his trunks. The crowded room was full of jostling sweaty men pulling off shirts and stripping past their skivvies. Gene noticed Sam’s shoulders tense—in that minute way that he’d seen 100 times at the station, but that no one else ever seemed to register. As he continued changing, he also noticed Sam staring resolutely at his bag, paying meticulous attention to every detail, refusing to look up despite Gene’s trying to grunt out some locker room banter.

After his first two comments went ignored and his third was answered with only a grunt, Gene finally cracked. “Wussamatta with you? ‘fraid you’re gonna get too excited in here, Sammy-boy?” Gene jeered none-too-quietly. Ray scoffed heartily and a few of the other detectives from A-Division sneered. 

Sam ignored the comment. Having finished pulling off his shoes and socks, he took his swimshorts in his firmly clenched hand and moved off towards the gent’s toilette, sequestering himself in a stall. He emerged less than a minute later still wearing his maroon tee.

Looking down as he made his way back to his bench, carefully folding and placing the discarded garments back inside his duffel, Gene stared. “You too good to change out here with us blokes? Prissy Miss Manners never had a gym class before?”

Sam finally looked up, staring Gene straight in the face. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for another comment. Gene looked back at Sam, saw he was stealing himself, getting ready to go on the defensive, and decided to avoid an all-out brawl in the close confines; wrestling with a bunch of spandex-clad blokes was too much male bonding even for him. He motioned to leave, yelling, “Right, let’s move it out!”

As the room emptied, Sam took his time—diligent as ever. Gene watched as the others filed out, saw Sam zipping up his bag and tucking it under the bench. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Tyler?”

Sam just looked at him, innocently.

“Picky-pain like you with all them details an’ all that, think ya’d noticed yer bloody shirt’s still on, ya div.”

“I’m not taking my shirt off, Guv.” Sam replied matter-of-factly.

Gene looked as if someone had told him the sky was green. “What? You’re gonna swim with your shirt on?”

Sam nodded once and tried to shrug off the question nonchalantly: “Yeah.”

“Don’t be daft.” When Sam’s visage set into that “I’m not budging even though its gonna drive you batty” expression that Gene knew sooo well (and felt was especially crafted for him), he couldn’t help but ask, “Well what the hell for?”

Sam shrugged and dropped his gaze.

“You’re gonna swim. In your shirt.” Sam nodded again. “You realize all them out there—all them _blokes_ — _aren’t_.”

“Why, Guv, I never took you as one to submit to peer pressure.” Sam jibed, purposely adding an annoyingly light naivité to his voice.

Deflecting wasn’t going to get Sam anywhere, Gene thought to himself (though not in such hoity-toity words, of course). “What _is it_ with you, Tyler? I seen ya with yer damn shirt off—cuffed to that shitty bed o’ yers. You just too modest in front o’ the ladies??”

Sam looked at him with a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Gene. That must be it.” And turned and walked out.

Gene knew it wasn’t.

Despite a few strange looks, the swim round went off without major trouble. Most people just chalked Sam’s dress up to his general oddness and left it at that.

~~~*~~~*~~~

The next week, they caught a break in the case. The sweltering stakeouts had led them to a very suspicious courier who made inexplicably regular deliveries to a warehouse in another part of town.

Chris and Ray were not with Sam and Gene that evening. Gene had kicked them both out of the car on account of being “whiney babies”, and had instead sent them back to the station to track down other leads. Surprisingly, Gene had not been sorry to see them go; he found he’d actually begun preferring Sam’s company to theirs as of late. It wasn’t so much a surprise not to miss Chris—the lad was never up to scruff in Gene’s book—but finding himself looking for Sam’s familiar profile at the bar, and feeling like something was missing when he couldn’t find it, regardless Ray’s sturdy presence heartily swigging a beer next to him—that, that _was_ unexpected.

In fact, Gene had been looking for excuses for them to spend some time together outside work; not that he’d really managed to come up with any. He’d thought about suggesting a football game, but the prick supported United and that was just inexcusable. Instead, he’d settled for—and begun to overly enjoy—his over time; this case in particular had kept them many a late night at the station.

They had been developing this case for over a month; starting with a small fish peddling stolen goods, slowly uncovering links to what was clearly a bigger and expanding crime ring. Despite all the legwork, they still hadn’t been able to come up with a name that led anywhere. Several aliases of ‘the big man’ had surfaced, but nothing concrete—no ties to other cities, no paper trail. It was like chasing a ghost. Finally, it looked like they were going to catch a break.

Sam followed Gene into the building. Guns drawn, the two men moved as soundlessly as they could through the darkened work floor.

And then the world went dark. Gene turned in time to see Sam crumple to the floor, just before feeling a crack on his own skull.

They woke with their hands chained to pipes behind their heads. It was a small interior room—bare bulbs hanging at odd intervals and lacking any windows, furnished only by a long rectangular table in front of them. Gene came-to first—his thick skull serving him well, and not for the first time. He was overall intact, though, strangely, lacking his shoes. Taking stock of his surroundings, he looked over at Sam, slumped, shirtless, held up by his limp arms over-head. His trademark leather jacket was crumpled at his feet.  Close enough to touch, the Guv nudged his DI.

“Sam… Sammy-boy... Dorothy!” he grunted lowly. Sam let out a low moan and fluttered his eyelids. Gene took stock of him: he had a cut along the back of his head, but the blood had dried and it didn’t look too serious. Aside from a few bruises, he seemed to be in once piece. Gene figured he himself was in a similar condition, though he obviously couldn’t assess the back of his own head.

The two captives barely had time to exchange a few words before a broad-shouldered thug entered the room. “Well, well. Look who finally woke up.”

Gene glared at him. Sam looked him over; he was holding their guns. Setting the firearms on the table, he walked over and kicked Gene in the stomach. Gene gasped and doubled over.

“I know who you are, DCI Hunt. And my boss is very happy that you’re here. With your little pretty-boy,” he nodded in Sam’s direction.

“Then you know how much trouble you’re gonna be in when we get outta here,” Gene grunted.  The guy slugged him across the jaw.

“Big man, beating up a tied-up copper,” Sam sneered, earning himself his own kick—though this one much less intense than the blow given Gene.

The man glared at Sam. “Gotta be nice to you. Boss said so.” Sam raised his eyebrows. The thug bent down and pinched Sam’s face. “Didn’t mean I couldn’t go shopping for myself though, eh? Nice shirt you ‘ad on there—blue goes with my eyes, don’tcha think?” he taunted, referencing Sam’s missing shirt. Sam seemed to notice for the first time that he was shirtless, and immediately stiffened—only managing to hide his discomfort from his captor because the thug had turned to Gene, continuing, “And your shoes weren’t too bad neither.”

“So, who is this boss o’ yours, then? Who’ll be gracin’ us with his presence?” Gene grated, seeking information as well as trying to keep the thug’s hands off his companion. He had a surge of protective possessiveness overwhelm him at the sight of the other man’s hands on his DI; he didn’t have time to fully analyze why or where this came from, how he’d always been protective of his officers but couldn’t actually recall feeling the sentiment to the same level or degree for any of the others. In lieu of appreciation for the novelty, he followed his usual approach—gut reaction.

“You’ll see soon enough. You ain’t in no position to be askin’ no questions, copper.” The man gave one more kick for good measure and turned, slamming the door behind him.

“Wussa plan, Guv?” Sam asked. Gene watched the blood from his lip drip onto his pant-leg. “They’ve got the guns and our badges. And,” Sam tugged on his chains, “far as I can see, quality workmanship.”

“You’d know, Dorothy, wouldn’t you?” Sam let the comment pass. “Well, there ain’t much of a plan as of yet, till we can get ourselves free. I ain’t got no lock-pickin’ kit on me. ‘Ave you?” Sam shook his head. “Anyways, we can’t leave till we finally see who’s in charge ‘a this whole operation here, can we? Gotta be someone big, ta have the balls to go after a DCI and his number one.” Sam quirked an eyebrow in mild surprise at the passing compliment; Gene acted as though he hadn’t noticed he’d given it.

Ten or so minutes passed in silence. There were few sounds from the corridor; it seemed apparent that whoever this boss was, he wasn’t about to bust in anytime soon.

Gene glanced over at Sam. The man seemed unusually tense for the first several minutes—more than he’d seen in previous ops-gone-wrong. Gene was by no means a chatty type, but Sam’s intense silence was starting to upset him. “First time I seen you shirtless in a while.” Sam straightened (he had begun to slouch). “Not that I’m the type to notice, ya no. Ain’t on yer ‘team’ there, Gladys.” Sam remained as stiff as a board, staring straight ahead. Gene knew the jibes weren’t Sam’s favorite form of discourse, but he was looking to pass the time, to get _some_ reaction out of him. “What’s that scar on your lower back, there?” Gene had noticed the lower corner of the right of Sam’s back, just over the kidney.

Sam immediately shifted and twisted, in what Gene surmised was a rather uncomfortable contortion for his arms, moving to a right angle with Gene, pushing his back side out of Gene’s view. “Nothin’.” Sam tried (in vain) to say dismissively.

“Hell, Tyler, if it were nuthin’ you wouldn’t be wound tighter than a prosie’s---”

“It was an accident. When I was a kid.” Sam spat.

“What happened?” Gene prodded.

“Nuthin.” Sam saw Gene’s ‘you-aint-gonna-win-this’ expression. “Tripped. In the street. Fell on…some rebar.”

“Rebar?” Sam nodded. “Rebar.” Gene repeated, incredulously. Sam nodded again. “And a childhood accident with rebar is why you won’t take your shirt off to play football or go swimming?” Again, a nod. “I see… and, rebar often cuts in the shape of the letter ‘F’, does it?” Gene was pretty sure Sam stopped breathing.

And just then, so did Gene. The doorknob turned, and Stephen Warren walked through the door.

“Well, hello DCI Hunt,” Warren crooned.

“Warren! What the bloody hell are you doing here?! You’re s’posed to be locked up!” Gene fumed.

“Why, I’m running a business, Mr. Hunt.” Warren seemed unable to hide his enthusiasm behind his faux sophistication. He was clearly delighted at this turn of events. “Yours isn’t the only state institution I own, Mr. Hunt. You can lock me up as much as you want, you ungrateful turn-coat, but you’ll never keep me there.”

Gene was fuming, straining against his cuffs.

“But, Mr. Hunt, how fortunate that we’ve managed to arrange this reunion. Because after our last business transaction,” Sam glared suspiciously at Gene, “or rather, when you broke our contract,” Warren continued, “I never had a chance to demonstrate the consequences of your actions. But now, Mr. Hunt,” he bent over and stroked Gene’s cheek, “now we have time to teach the naughty boy a lesson.” Warren’s voice dripped with malice.

“You lay one finger on me, Warren---“ Gene spat the name, letting  the vague threat hang in the air.

“Oh no, Gene. Not _you_. I’ve never wanted _you._ You’re not my type. Not my type at all.” He turned to Sam, walking over and squatting before him, reaching a hand to his soft skin. “But Sam, here. Sam’s a whole ‘nother story, now isn’t he?”

Sam recoiled from Warren’s touch. “Those high cheeks, that _gorgeous_ mouth, those pink lips—“ Warren traced Sam’s lips with a light finger.

“Get your hands off my DI, you scum!” Gene shouted, his blood boiling.

Warren continued, trailing his hand down over Sam’s throat, onto his chest. Sam tried to bite him, missed, and smacked his forehead against Warren’s in as good an ad hoc head-butt as he could manage.

“Oi!” Warren reached up to rub his head. “Naughty, naughty boy.”

Warren left Sam and walked to the door. Snapping his fingers, he waited as two goons walked in. “Get him on the table,” Warren ordered.

They released and then dragged a thrashing Sam, bending him facedown over the table, where they again cuffed and then proceeded to gag him. Warren dismissed the men with a wave of his hand.

“Warren, don’t do this. Don’t,” Gene growled. Sam offered his own muffled, indecipherable protest.

“Oh Gene, when are you going to learn?” Warren mocked, bending over Sam and caressing his face once more. “Well, now I suppose,” he answered his own question. “After all, class is in session. Shall we start the lesson?” He smiled at his own witticism.

“If it’s my lesson, what’s my DI got to do with it? He’s nothing to you.”

Warren looked taken aback. “On the contrary, he has everything to do with it. It was this little princess that turned you against me, changed the well-oiled-machine that we had so carefully constructed, that made my line of work so profitable. He very much has something to do with it.”

“It was my decision; it was on my authority---“

“Yes. But think how much worse this will be for you. _This_ is a lesson I can teach _both_ of you. Now be a good little girl, Sam.” Warren traced a hand over Sam’s back—“oh, such strong muscles”—Sam tried to kick Warren, thrashing wildly. “If you don’t behave, my dear, this is only going to hurt worse. But you’ve always had a problem behaving, haven’t you?” Warren slapped Sam on the ass, hard, then reached into his pocket and pulled out another set of cuffs, using them to cuff Sam’s ankles to the table legs.

Sam lay there as Warren continued to trace his hands down Sam’s back, rubbing deeply into the muscles of his upper back, then tracing his right hand over his lower. Making shapes Gene couldn’t decipher, Warren cryptically remarked, “Now I _know_ you’re going to like this.” He reached below, unbuckled and unzipped Sam’s pants, pulling them down to his ankles. “Oh, a briefs man,” Warren remarked, running a finger lightly under the band, just above Sam’s buttocks. “So fitting-- and form-fitting…” Warren began to undo his own trousers.

“WARREN!!” Gene yelled.

“If you’re not quiet, Gene, I’ll have you gagged as well. You’ll ruin the mood.” Warren began to stroke himself as he continued to run his other hand over Sam’s body. “No need to pretend Sammy-boy, even in front of your Guv here. We both know what you are, how you’re going to love every minute of it. Looks like someone’s been here before me, haven’t they?” An almost imperceptible whimper escaped Sam’s mouth—the sound hung on Gene’s ears, but Warren seemed not to notice; he was too preoccupied with whatever was so intriguing about Sam’s back. “Hmmm, makes me think I’ll have to be a bit more rough with you, eh? Otherwise, this won’t be a lesson a’tall, will it?” Warren’s grin widened. He bent low, still stroking his length as he kissed Sam’s back. Sam squirmed, straining against his ties. Warren slid down his underwear, kissing the soft pale skin beneath. “Oh you’re gorgeous you are. So proper, so uptight, but a naughty naughty boy. Aren’t you? Naughty boy.” Warren pressed his erection against Sam’s crevice.

Gene was horrified by what was about to happen. Sam tried to turn his head away from Gene’s side of the room, but the gag had been fashioned in such a way that his range of motion was severely limited— _they must have tied it to the table as well_ , Gene guessed; he couldn’t quite tell from his position on the floor.

Sam stared at the wall, not looking at Gene since he’d first been moved to the table. Gene couldn’t blame the man. He wasn’t sure if he should talk, try to help Sam through what was about to happen, or if it was best to stay silent, let Sam believe no one else was here. Gene tried to look away. Warren yelled, “If you don’t watch, I’ll shoot him when I’m done! This is part of your lesson, Gene—this is what happens to boys who misbehave!”

And with that, he shoved himself into Sam in a single, hard thrust. A strangled cry erupted from Sam, Gene could see his eyes water. “You _bastard._ ” Gene growled. “Sam,” Gene softened, “Sam, it’s… it’s ok, Sam. Just think about something else… think about a beautiful girl down in Mexico, you were talkin’ bout Mexico the other day—“

“Oh, you’re thick ain’t you, Gene?” Warren derided. “It ain’t no girl, he’ll be thinkin’ bout, will it, Sammy? Princess Sammy? _You’re_ the girl, ain’t you? And you want a big strong man, don’t you? You naughty naughty boy. I can see the proof right here--” again, Warren grabbed Sam’s lower back, then held on to steady his thrusts.

A tear fell.  Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

“You’re such a dirty little tart, aren’t you. And tight, oh so tight!” Warren sped up, pounding into Sam with more ferocity. Gene saw blood trickle down Sam’s legs. He didn’t know what to say; there was nothing he could do.

“Little _ponce_ aren’t you? Little poof! Little tart! And this is what little tarts deserve, ain’t it?!” Warren hit Sam savagely, as he pounded into him with rage. “And this is what they get. You dirty, dirty slut!” Warren was breathing harder now. He reached down and grabbed Sam’s groin. “You want this, don’t you. Don’t you, Sam?” Warren slapped him again. “Tell me how much you want this! Go on, show him how much you like it! Show him this is who you really are. This is what you want—a hard cock in your ass and a good handjob!” Warren was in total control, just how he loved it. He began to pump Sam, bringing him to stiffness despite Sam’s mental unwillingness.

Sam groaned. Gene couldn’t tell if it was with pleasure or pain—or both.

“Are you watching Gene? Are you watching? Don’t make me shoot the little harlot!  I may want to have him again--- be a shame to waste such a tight hole.” Gene glared at Warren, but dared not look away; though, he thought Sam might actually prefer to be shot; Gene knew he himself would. “Tell me Sammy, was the bloke who marked you better than me?” Sam offered a strangled reply—unintelligible. “Of course not, I bet I’m the best fuck you ever had, ain’t I? And after all those men, I’m so honored.”

“You’re a sick sonofabitch, Warren,” Gene spat.

“Oh Sam, take it, take it!” Sam _was_ taking it, Gene thought, as he noticed Sam just lying there. He had struggled at the beginning, but now he had just given up. This was not the Sam he knew.

“Does your Guv know what you are? Has he had you over his desk himself?” Warren dug.

“Shuttup you sick fuck!” Gene said.

“Gene, I warned you!” Warren spat, not turning his head. “Oh, what’s the matter Princess, don’t want your big strong boss to know what you do with your dick?” Warren squeezed Sam tighter; Sam uttered another strangled yell. _Pain,_ Gene thought, _that was definitely pain._  “Oh, Sammy, Sammy. Little detective Sammy. You do your job so well, and look at where it gets you!”

Warren increased his speed once more, and pumped Sam with more ferocity. Sam arched his back, and came onto Warren’s furious fingers. Sam’s ejaculation prompted Warren’s own, as he threw his head back, shuddering, and then released deep within the other man.

Warren pulled out, making himself presentable once more. He released Sam’s gag and rearranged his footholds, chaining one foot to a pipe near Gene. Warren stood over Sam, examining him. “Oh Sammy, you’re one good fuck. But you already knew that, didn’t you? The question is, how’s a whore like you gonna stay a detective inspector? Should I let you run back to your _friends_ at the precinct? What a waste of talent! Maybe I’ll just keep you here as my personal rent-boy” he bent low to Sam’s ear “ _forever”_ he whispered loudly.

“Shut yer mouth, Warren. You sadistic pervert!” Gene bellowed.

Warren walked over and smacked Gene again. “Then again, I suppose I could wait until your little copper buddies _abandon_ you. _Shun_ and _exile_ you.” Waren punctuated his words with several more blows to Sam’s torso. “After all, you just heard it from the lips of your department god, didn’t you, Sammikins? You’re a pervert, you are. They don’t like that down at CID.” He laughed viciously.

“Oi! I thought your goon said you wanted him kept in good shape! What the hell are you beatin’ ‘im for?!” Gene tried to remind Warren, hoping to spare Sam whatever he could.

“Just that pretty face,” Warren squeezed Sam’s jaw.

 Warren then uncuffed Sam’s hands. Gene expected him to jump up and deck the bastard, but he just continued to lie there, making use of his increased mobility only insofar as it meant turning his head away from his Guv.

Gene watched Warren standing over Sam, surveying his work. He then walked over to Gene, who promptly spat in his face. Gene’s reward was a blow to the side of the head which briefly knocked him out. When he came-to, Gene was restrained by his feet as well, hands free. He looked up to see Sam on the floor, lying curled at the base of the table, directly where Warren had been standing during his assault. _He must have simply slid off the table after Warren left_ , Gene thought to himself. _Or maybe Warren pushed him._

Sam’s back remained to Gene. He could see the man was shivering. Or was it just plain shaking? And he could also see what Sam had been trying to hide for so long, tried to cover from anyone and everyone. It wasn’t just one scar on his lower back—scrawled from kidney to kidney were big, jagged, capital letters: F-A-I-R-Y. And, above his shoulder blades, two slightly-more-faded-but-still-present wings had been carved into his skin. Gene stared.

Finally, knowing he had to do _something,_ Gene shuffled himself closer to Sam. Not sure what it was exactly that that something should be, he tried to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. Sam seized up. “Don’t touch me!” he rasped. Gene immediately pulled his hand away. He was pretty sure Sam was crying. He hadn’t even pulled his clothes back on.

They stayed like that, untalking, until some food was dropped in a while later. Bare bones stuff, but it came with a glass of water. Gene ate and drank without hesitation. Sam still hadn’t moved.

“Sam,” he said softly. “Sam, you should eat.” Sam gave no indication he had heard Gene or intended to respond. “Sam, that’s an order. Eat.”

Still, Sam ignored him.

“You’re my DI and I’m telling you, ‘Eat.’” Gene moved back towards the naked man, bringing the food and his own glass of water. “Come on Sam, you need…” Gene trailed off. Frankly, he had no idea what Sam needed. Probably he did _not_ need the witness to his rape to be ordering him around, even if he was offering food. Warren had done plenty of the controlling; maybe Gene should do less. 

Gene tried to think, what if it had been him? What would he want? He couldn’t even imagine…couldn’t bring himself to imagine…

“Sam, look, I… I don’t know… look, we should get you dressed again, some, a bit, in case Ray or Chris find us. It can’t be long, now, eh?”

Sam’s only response was an unintelligible half-sob and half-scoff.

Gene took that as a sign of…well, of at least _something_ , some start of a conversation. “Oh, come on, you know, they’re not as bad coppers as you think they are. Well, Ray ain’t anyway…” Gene trailed off. Again, Sam offered a choked response, though this time it sounded distinctly more sob-ish.

“Look, er, Ray dun have to know nothing about this, ok? I mean, what you…what he… we’ll just get you patched up and---“

Sam finally moved—away from Gene, never even turning his head to look at the man.

Gene stared at him, still lying on the cold concrete. “Wrong thing to say? Yeah, well, come on, Sam, you know me; when have I _ever_ said the right thing with you, eh?”

Gene couldn’t see his face, but he distinctly thought he saw the line of Sam’s cheek puff up in a small, fleeting hint of a smile. Gene smiled to himself—for the first time in, it seemed, ages.

Gene reached out and, running through 1,000 possible comments, settled on, “I’m right here, Sam. I ain’t going nowhere.” And with that, he settled a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam didn’t move away.

Gene rested that way for another long while, giving Sam some time. He got up at one point, trying to check the room, find a crack, a means of escape, but to no avail; the chain was too short to let him reach all the way to the door. Ultimately, he settled back at Sam’s side. Sam still hadn’t moved. Gene dozed. He woke, finding Sam in the exact same position. He couldn’t tell for certain, but he was pretty sure Sam hadn’t slept a wink.

Gene decided to push the eating issue again. But before he could, Sam reached a hand to the tray Gene had placed in front of him and nibbled a slice of bread. Gene sighed in relief.

“Glad to see you’re hungry again, Gl—“ he stopped himself. Sam stiffened at what he knew was the unspoken end of the sentence. “I didn’t think starvation was the most effective means of suicide,” Sam replied dryly.

“Sam.” The fact that Sam hadn’t moved in hours unnerved Gene. “Sam, you know you can’t--- you shouldn’t—you’re not really going to—“ Gene was at a loss. Sam wasn’t helping. He just continued to lie there and stare at the wall as he nibbled. “You can’t kill yourself.” Gene said flatly.

“Don’t I know it,” Sam scoffed cryptically and took another small bite of bread.

Gene made several more attempts to engage Sam in conversation, but the smaller man didn’t respond. After finishing his piece of bread, he lay motionless once more. Gene continued to watch him. Then he started to shake, silently. Gene rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam couldn’t hold the sound in anymore, his body racked with sobs. Gene looked at his DI—his friend, broken and naked on the ground. He pulled off his socks, poured some of his drinking water on them, and made to wash Sam’s legs.

“Sam, I’m going to touch you, now.” Gene warned, remembering the last reaction he got to an unexpected touch. “I’m _not_ assaul---, I’m just, I’m going to try to help.”

Gene slowly wiped the dried blood from Sam’s calves, from the crook behind his knees, finishing with gentle strokes along his inner thighs and around his buttocks. When he finished, he used his sleeve to dry the area, and pulled Sam’s underwear, then pants—with no help from Sam—back up. At this point, he wound his way around to Sam’s front and buttoned him. Fastening the belt, Gene finally looked at Sam’s face. He could see the bags under Sam’s eyes, the trail the dried tears had left from hours before, and now the fresh trails left from this most recent bout, culminating in a pool on the floor. Sam had managed to stem the sobbing for the time being, but still shuddered uncontrollably. Gene removed his own overshirt, leaving him clad in a thin white beater, and wrapped the green, striped, dress shirt over Sam, covering his back and draped across his arms. Sam curled into it like a blanket.

Gene sat cross-legged in front of him. He watched as Sam stared blankly at Gene’s legs—the point right in front of his eyes. What possessed Gene to do what he did next, he couldn’t quite say—no one had ever accused him of having a nurturing insight; perhaps it was the sight of this dependably-strong, confrontationally-adept person he’d come to rely on and respect reduced to a broken heap on a cold floor; perhaps it was all the tenderness he’d so-long suppressed finally managed to push its way to the surface; perhaps it was the stirrings of some connection between him and his friend, but he reached out and dragged Sam over to him, cradling his head in the crook of his arm, rested against his lap. Sam didn’t bother pulling away.

“Sam, will you please drink something?” Sam shook his head, a hollow look in his eyes. “Sam, you can’t think about killing yourself.” Sam remained silent. “Maybe if I was you I would too. I dunno.” Gene admitted. “But you’re stronger than that. You can’t let him do this to you. You can’t let Warren win.” Sam grimaced and closed his eyes.

Gene sensed he had said something wrong. “Look, when Ray and Chris—“ Gene stopped as he felt Sam’s body tighten and begin to shiver again. And tears started streaming out from his tightly clenched lids. “What? What is it Sam? Chris and Ray?” Sam seemed to lose control, trembling so hard that Gene felt the need to clench him tightly to his chest to hold him steady, lest he fall into a full-blown fit. “Ok, ok… look, I know you don’t get along with---“ he hesitated to mention Ray’s name again “ _some_ on the team,” Gene finished. “But, you know, they, they’re not…” Gene tried to figure out what it was Sam needed to hear. “They don’t have to know. I swear, Sam, I won’t ever tell them.” Sam’s tremors subsided ever-so-slightly. Every muscle in his body was still as tight as measured thread—and seemed as fragile, too.

“Why?” A barely audible question emanated from somewhere near his midsection, muffled by Sam’s mouth being pressed into Gene’s belly.

Gene looked down at Sam in utter confusion (not that Sam could see his expression). “Why would I?” Contemplating possible holes in his code-of-silence plan, Gene knew he couldn’t control what Warren did or said, not from in here: “And if I don’t say, nobody will know; when we get Warren, he’ll never admit to what he did—he’d never get off. And even if it slips, who’s gonna believe him over the word of an A-division DCI and DI? People’ll just think he’s talking outta his ass.” Gene semi-regretted the choice of words, but Sam didn’t seem to mind.

Gene held Sam that way for a long time. In silence, he finished his meal, watched as Sam’s continued to lay untouched—save for the slice of bread. But Gene wouldn’t touch his food; that was Sam’s food, and Sam might need it.

With the next meal came a message. A new thug tossed in the food and said, “Mr. Warren says not to hold out hope for a rescue; we found your crappy little car and moved it far away. Your divs won’t find it for a good long while, and far off the track, too. And he says, to the little one,” he nodded at Sam, still cradled in Gene’s lap and staring at Gene’s stomach, “he said that he misses you and wants to visit again real soon.” The thug left. And Sam started shaking again.

“Shhh, shhhh Sammy-boy. Shush now.” Gene started rocking Sam back and forth. He refused to make promises he couldn’t keep, so rather than say everything would be alright, rather than tell Sam that he, the Gene Genie, would protect him, rather than say all the things he wished he could make true, he told Sam a story. He started talking about good childhood memories—ball games and playground adventures and birthday cakes. And then he talked about his mum—great woman his mum. And then he mentioned his dad. And Stu. “Ya know, Stu, he used to hold me just like this after me dad would have one of his bad nights…  he tried to protect me most times, but sometimes, sometimes me dad just had me in his sights, y’know? And Stu, he, he’d rock me and tell me it’d be ok.” Sam seemed to be listening. He’d opened his eyes. At the mention of his dad, Sam had reached for Gene’s hand and was holding it. Gene let him.  “Then, you know, when we got older… well, then it was me holdin’ Stu, when he’d come home havin’ a bad trip, or shaking from withdrawal because he couldn’t find his dealer or afford the drugs.” Gene found himself running his free hand through Sam’s short hair.

Gene had talked for a very long time. Sam seemed to have actually relaxed a bit. Then, miracle of miracles, in what had been probably over a day and a half since the attack, Sam fell asleep, Gene stroking his hair and back, still holding his hand. Gene too drifted off, but stirred with a jolt when Sam awoke screaming. Gene grabbed him and held him close, “Shhh, Sammy, it’s ok, it’s ok. I’ve got you, Sam, I’ve got you.” Sam struggled until Gene’s soothing voice registered, at which point he collapsed back into sobs. “Shhh, Sammy. Shhhh.” He held him close and continued to stroke his back. Just like he used to do for Stu. Just like Stu…. _But it won’t be like with Stu_ , Gene resolved. He wouldn’t lose Sam. _He wouldn’t lose Sam._

Gene started talking again, telling obscure stories, yammering about birthdays or holidays. He paused and gazed down at Sam, who looked up at the sudden interruption of the comforting, normalizing voice. “Sam, you’re going to get through this. We’re going to get out of here. And you’re going to be ok.”

Sam’s eyes dropped back down. Gene searched for them again, going so far as to tilt Sam’s chin back up, but Sam avoided his gaze. Gene hugged him tighter. “Aright, I been talking a real long time. Now it’s your turn.” Sam didn’t respond.

The door opened, both men tensed. Two meals were tossed in. The door shut.

“You need to eat something.” Sam didn’t stir. “Ok, you either eat something, or you talk. That’s an order from your Guv.” Sam shook his head. “Sam! I’m not playing. One or the other—you want beans or you gonna tell me a story?” Sam buried his head in Gene’s stomach. “Sam.” Gene said sternly. “I’m not letting you starve yourself, comprehendes? I’m here. I’m clearly not going anywhere.”

Sam mumbled something into Gene’s stomach. Gene rubbed Sam’s head, “What did you say, Sam?” Sam shook his head. “Come on, Sam, talk to me—I’m right here. And I’m even bloody listening--- aren’t you so surprised?... I’m right here, Sam.” Gene sighed and rubbed his head some more, “Right here…”

Sam pulled his face away from Gene’s stomach, long enough to mutter, “For now.”

“Huh?” Gene looked down, puzzled.

“You’re here, for now.” Sam stated, simply, voice emotionless.

“What does that mean?” Gene asked, treating his finally-speaking companion with kid-gloves, scared to death he’d make another wrong move and shut him right up. The irony of him now trying to get Sam to _talk_ after spending so many working hours wishing he’d just shut up was not wholly lost on Gene. Still, he found he cared a great deal—a surprisingly great deal. He tried to picture him caring this much if one of his other men were in this position… somehow he just couldn’t picture Ray curled up against his chest. Ray, like this—no, even if Warren had done what he’d done to him, Ray would just soldier on, tightlipped and stoic-- that’s what Ray did. Good chance he might top himself, without any word otherwise, never see it commin’-- a man’s man. But here was Sam, and Gene wasn’t disgusted, he wasn’t repulsed, and he wasn’t calling him a sissy. And he really wanted him to finish his sentence.

“You’re only here for now. If we get out of this, if I go back to my apartment—“ Sam’s voice cracked, then he rasped, “if I go back to the office—“ tears welled in his eyes again and threatened to breach the levies he’d been working so hard to erect.

“Sam, Sam, Sam, what do you think is going to happen? I told you, I won’t tell anyone, ok?”

“Yes, you will.”

“No, I won’t. _Why_ are you so convinced I will?”

“Because, because Ray hates me, and I piss you off, and you love Ray, and you drink with Ray, and drunk people say things that they aren’t meant to, and it just, it fits with everything” Sam’s voice caught again, “with everything you’ve been saying since I showed up.”

“Sam, come on, we’re only riling you ‘cause you’re such a picky-pain, ok? I’m not gonna say nuthin’ I swear. It’s gonna be ok.”

Sam just shook his head. “They’ll know.”

“How will they know?” Gene asked. “I’m not gonna tell ‘em, so how will they know?”

“You won’t have to. They’ll see it.” He swallowed. “They’ll see it. In how you treat me. You won’t be able to look at me. Too ashamed—“ Sam couldn’t finish the sentence. “I know. …. You blame me, it’s my fault… My fault we’re here, my fault they came after us, my fault he… But not last time, it _wasn’t._ ” There was a pleading in Sam’s voice as he uttered that last sentence that Gene had never heard before. Gene wasn’t even sure Sam was talking to him anymore, or lost in some far-off train of thought. “Not my fault, not my fault…” he repeated, mumbling aloud, sounding like he was trying to ascertain that fact to himself more than anything.

“Sam!” Gene shook his shoulders. “Sam. Look at me!” After a moment, Sam raised his gaze. “Sam, this is not your fault. In _no way_ is this your fault! _I_ know that. Do _you_ know that? It _was not_ your fault. You got that?” Sam just stared at Gene, unblinking. “Sam, show me that you understand.” Sam slowly, half-heartedly nodded. Gene was unconvinced.

“Eat something, Sam.” Gene held up some more bread and pushed it against Sam’s mouth until he finally relented and took a bite.

They sat in silence for a long while after that, Gene rerunning Sam’s earlier comments through his head, Sam simply staring vacantly at Gene’s stomach. Something Sam had said wasn’t sitting right with Gene. And he thought the answer lay in the question he’d been trying, since Sam’s…”event”… to avoid asking; the question that’d been lingering for months, unanswered; the question that kept coming back, even though Gene _knew_ it was probably not the best time for it. But then again, maybe he _needed_ to know; not just for himself but for Sam too. “Sam?” Gene finally broke the silence. Sam twitched in response. “Sam, what happened to your back? Who did that to you?”

Gene wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Sam actually shrunk more into himself, looking even smaller than he had done.

But Gene wanted –needed-- to know. He’d seen the scars, the jagged cuts, long-since healed over. He knew the lengths Sam’d gone to to keep it secret… “Did it happen in Hyde? Or did Hyde PD find out? Is that why you requested a transfer?”

Sam still didn’t answer. Gene felt the tight, broken body still curled against his own and decided finally to just leave it. He didn’t want to risk breaking Sam, and he seemed so fragile… They sat in silence, Gene slowly running his hands in soothing circles over Sam’s back. Another meal was dropped, but neither made a move for it.

Then, out of nowhere, Sam whispered, “I was a kid.”   Gene’s ears perked up, but he didn’t say a word-- just kept moving his hand in slow, concentric circles along Sam’s back. “A teenager. And I was out with a—a friend. It was late, it was dark. We were comin’ back from a movie.   These guys, they, they saw us—“  Sam paused, his voice was so soft Gene wasn’t sure Sam knew he was speaking out loud. “They saw us and they jumped us. And that’s what happened…. Now you know.”

“What happened to your friend?” Gene asked.

“They--- they sodomized him,” Sam choked, “beat his head, and threw ‘im in the river.”

The pit of Gene’s stomach dropped three flights.

“Did they do that to you?” he whispered, his voice thick and rough with subdued rage and horror. Sam didn’t reply. Gene took that as answer enough. “Did they catch them?”

“No. never.” Sam shook his head. Gene was puzzled. “Had masks. I couldn’t ID ‘em… I couldn’t be sure.” That was Sam, Gene thought, never let an innocent man be put away-- even at the cost of his own friend, of himself.

“So weak.” Sam said, disgusted. “And now, again…”

“Sam?” Gene asked softly. Sam stopped his mumbling. “What they wrote, Sam, what they— _carved_ —“ Gene stopped, thought. “It wasn’t a friend you were out with, were it? Was a date, yeah? The mate of yours, you fancied him?”

Sam stiffened once more. Then rolled his head, pushing deeper into Gene’s soft belly, as if to bury himself there.

Gene squeezed him, then rubbed his back some more.

“Sam.” Gene insisted. “Sam, tell me.” Gene reflected, and was almost as shocked as Sam was to hear himself asking, “What was his name, Sam?”

After a brief pause, Sam meekly but steadily responded: “Daniel.” He took a shaky breath before barreling on, in a somewhat crazed frenzy of memory—of finally saying something after so long, of making it real again here and now. He saw himself walking near the river, the tingling sensation of hand-in-hand, butterflies in his stomach as he’d reaped the rewards of plucking up the courage to squeeze back when Daniel had slipped his hand in Sam’s. And the terror and bitter taste of adrenaline; the short-lived butterflies replaced by dread as three shadowed figures had jumped out at them. The agonizing blows reigning down… “I couldn’t fight back. I tried, I tried so hard—“ he was sobbing again; Gene felt like a right bastard for putting him through it a second time. “And now, look at me, again, bloody weak—“ Sam rolled back, his voice again muffled in Gene’s stomach.

Gene thought for a moment, taking the information in. Thought of what he expected his reaction to be. Thought of what Sam likely expected his reaction to be—and the fact that Sam had told him anyway. finally. sort of. And he thought of losing Sam; of what that would mean. Then, after what must have seemed to Sam to be an interminable stretch of time, commented gruffly: “You know Sam, you’re a lot of things.” He could feel Sam tense, ready to be pushed away, pulling his arms up defensively. “You’re a picky-pain-- a control freak who loves rules and procedure; you’re a copper with a strict sense of justice; you’re a bloody good detective—though I ain’t never gonna admit that again, ya hear?—but the one thing I think I can say for certain you _ain’t_ is _weak_.”

Sam looked up at Gene, frozen in disbelief. “You mean, you’re not--- you’re not---“

“What? Gonna fire you? Gonna beat the livin’ crap outta you?” Sam looked at him with wide eyes. “No, I dare say I won’t. That’s not to say, o’ course, that I never will--- but not fer this Sam, not fer this.” Gene tightened his hold on Sam once again.

Then Sam did something miraculous. He sat up—still with a slightly befuddled, and pained, look on his face. He still stayed close to Gene, and Gene kept his arm around him as he laid his head on Gene’s shoulder, but he finally moved from the spot where he’d collapsed on the floor what felt like days ago. Gene handed him a glass of water; Sam drank.

“You thought I was gonna abandon you?” Gene grunted.

Sam shrugged and nodded slightly.

“You honestly thought I’d think you were a weak pansy?” Sam flinched at the word. Gene mentally kicked himself.

“You thought I’d hold all this against you? You decided you’d rather make up excuses in locker rooms and pool parties and soccer matches.” Realization dawned on Gene. “That you’d rather _request off undercover detail_ on a case you’d been leading, putting your career _on the line,_ rather than tell me what was going on???” Gene pressed. He felt…well, he didn’t know what he felt; but he sure as hell knew he didn’t like that his DI, his friend, would think--

“It’s 1973.” Sam stated flatly, interrupting Gene’s thought. “I can count on one hand the number of days I worked in that office where no one’s used some slur about sexuality against me. And those days, I was either alone on a weekend or you were busy using other slurs instead. I, I just thought… I mean what was I supposed to…and after W---“ Sam couldn’t bring himself to say the name.

“Say it, Sam. Don’t let him own you. Say his name.” Gene squeezed his shoulder.

“Warren.” Sam rushed, barely audibly, eyes shut tight.  “After what happened, I just thought, you’d--- I’d--- I’d just be the girl, officially, and worse than… and I’m not a girl! I’m a man! I’m a man…” Sam was finally starting to show some of that backbone Gene knew so well. But it disappeared as rapidly as it had come. He dropped his head. “I thought, seeing that… you’d be ashamed of me, of your DI, taking that. And then, then when you learned… what, who I am… you’d, you’d be disgusted.”

Gene’s head fell back against the wall. He gazed at the ceiling. “So ever since Warren showed up, you basically figured you’d lost everything.”

Sam didn’t reply.

“Stupid, git.” Gene said, taking in the sight of Sam’s short hair resting against his arm and chest. He squeezed Sam closer.

Gene was pleased. Sam had spoken. And not just spoken, but they’d _talked_. Gene was never one to place an emphasis on communication, but he thought this was right. This was good. ‘Cept of course for what had brought it on.

They spent another day—or another two meals; that’s how Gene was counting days. They talked a bit; Sam said some more strange things, got his verbs mixed up when telling stories about his childhood—but it was that normal kinda strange Gene had come to associate with him. He was glad to have it back. Even though Sam stayed close. And didn’t eat all too much. And didn’t go near the table or door. And still woke up screaming.

Then the doorknob turned. And Warren walked back in the room, holding a pistol. And Sam, despite how hard he held on to Gene, and the clear effort he put into trying to be the brave DI for his Guv, could not stop trembling. And Warren loved it. And he said how much he’d missed his little tart. His hot piece of ass. And didn’t Sam know he was the talk of the town? And he moved in to touch him. And Sam snapped. He kicked and thrashed and screamed and bit, and Warren held up the pistol. And Gene shouted, and Gene threw his body between Sam and the gun.

And there was blood. And Gene didn’t feel a thing. And he looked at Sam, held Sam’s face in his hands, saw the eyes staring past where Warren had stood. _Had_ stood. Gene looked around. There stood Ray Carling and Chris Skelton. And there lay Warren, two bullet holes in his back.

And Gene pulled himself off his charge, covertly hugging him along the way and whispering in his ear, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Right, let’s get out of here!” the Guv commanded. “Unchain us you two! What the hell took you so bloody long!?”

“You never radioed in to tell us where you was, Guv,” Chris said. “We had no place to start.”

“Didn’t even find the Cortina for the first two days.” Ray informed them. “Then had to figure out where it’d been.”

“Oh, so you mean you had to do some _real_ police work for a change?” the Guv jeered. He glanced back and saw Sam give a smile.

A smile. That was a start. That was a real good start. That was more than he’d had with Stu in the end. He still had Sam. And he was determined to keep him.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is the first in a series (of at least two parts). However, I've been working on the second story (a follow-up/recovery for Sam) for a long time now, and it still probably won't be posted any time soon. I hope you'll read it when it -is- finally available. Sorry in advance for the delay. :(


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